


lovesick

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 14:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16894737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: it’s 5 days till christmas and dele is still hopelessly in love





	lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> warning: contains a surplus of love declarations and sappiness  
> ill probably un anon this at some point but old fandoms are haunting

“Eric, you cheeky shit. This isn’t a joke!”  
“I’m afraid it is, Delboy. It’s easily the funniest thing I’ve heard all year, and I heard John Stones say he’d give Gareth Southgate a nosh.”  
“That’s completely unhelpful! I don’t wanna imagine Stonesy with his face in Gareth’s crotch, thank you very much. Thought you’d be more supportive than this, should’ve told Winksy instead.”  
“Hang on, hang on. What do you want me to say, Dele? Propose to him? I’ll help you pick out the ring.”  
“You’re a sarcastic shit, Eric Dier, and it will come back and bite you on the arse one day if I have anything to do with it.”  
“Can’t even make a joke about you not being gay anymore because yo-"  
“You’re not welcome in my home any longer, Diet! Disgrace upon you and your rainbow laces.”  
“Speaking of, I’ve got you a pair for Christmas, they’ll look beautiful with your highlighter pink boots. Bet Harry will love them.”  
Dele is exhausted. They’ve been going back and forth for at least 15 minutes, Love Actually completely ignored, and Dele thinks it’s rather rude to neglect what is a modern romantic classic, but he hadn’t expected his little..confession to garner quite so much attention. But if you asked Dele if he’d unsay it given the chance? Well, he’d probably say yes because Eric is making a massive deal about something that Dele thinks isn’t actually very important.

The only reason he thinks that is because it definitely, 100%, is.

“Honestly, Dele, you told me like I didn’t know already. You’re amazingly not opaque y’know.” Dele doesn’t much like being compared to a pair of tights, especially not when the comparison in question is about something he was sure he kept very well hidden.  
“Del, do you not remember you were standing right next to me when he banged that strike in and you actually whimpered?”  
Dele can feel his cheeks heat far hotter than his gas fire on full blast.  
“That’s because you stood on my foot.” He retorts petulantly, seriously reconsidering letting Eric stay for the night. Would it be cruel chucking out his best friend at 11pm in December when the weatherman issued amber warnings for ice?  
“And you fucking leap at him when he scores, he basically waits for you to jump in his lap.”  
And okay, that’s totally unfair. Everyone accepts goal celebrations always cross the line of heterosexual contact but it’s all adrenaline and not, y’know, a desire to be wrapped around Harry Kane’s waist.

Unfortunately for Dele, it rather is a desire to be wrapped around Harry Kane’s waist but fuck him if he’s gonna agree with Eric right now.  
“Just thought you’d tell me some worldly wisdom but belt up, it’s fine, watch the film, you’re annoying me.”  
Dele’s best coping method is brattiness. Eric is well aware of this and sits through the remainder of the film watching Dele’s set eyebrows and crossed arms and sulky pout. When everyone’s suitably paired up and Dele’s eyes glisten with that little sheen he gets watching cliché romance, Eric pulls him into a hug because he may be a sarcastic shit but he’s also a good best friend.  
“I’ve a sneaking suspicion Harry loves you too. Remember in Russia when he wouldn’t stop sitting next to you? The man bloody smacked me out the way just to sit next to you.”  
“You make it sound like Year 8 and, anyway, he wouldn’t have smacked you. Harry doesn’t like violence.”  
Eric rolls his eyes.  
“Aren’t you happy to know your man would go to war for you?”  
“No? Because he’s not my man and I’d rather he didn’t go to war?”  
“Suit yourself Delboy, I’ll stand down the calvary.”

Dele starts singing _Stop The Calvary_ at the top of his voice because he can’t stay pissed off with Eric for very long and he lives to impress him with his knowledge of Christmas songs. Eric reacts with an excellent groan to which Dele laughs joyously, but he can’t help wondering if maybe Eric is right.

He doesn’t let himself wonder very much, because he’s perfectly happy dealing with this schoolboy crush till it dissolves when Dele actually gets a bit of action. So what if he hasn’t had any since a few misplaced hands in Russia? It focuses the mind.

Well, it would, if his mind would think about anything other than how much it wants Harry Kane.

* * *

There’s lots Dele likes about Harry. He likes the way he smiles sheepishly when he does well and the way he beams when Dele says something funny; he likes the way he _does_ wear really nice jumpers and jeans that actually fit him (because, honestly, after over 3 years of best-friendship, Eric Dier has failed to improve sartorially and it still upsets Dele to no end); he likes the way that Harry is sensible and kind and level-headed and a lot of the things Dele feels he isn’t; he likes the way Harry scores effortlessly and still manages to make Dele feel like the centre of the world afterwards.

He ponders all of this watching Harry across the changing room after training. There’s a strand of hair curled in the middle of his forehead that Dele desperately wants to tuck behind his ear. He wonders if he could do it and pass it off as a joke, run a hand through his hair and rub his thumb along his cheekbone and see his eyes light up, because they always do without fail for Dele. His legs are making an aborted movement to stand up and hug Harry for his goal (because he _is_ allowed to do that) but Harry’s already in front of him, shirtless and still sweaty and God, he smells like his expensive cologne and grass and sweat and somehow it’s all clean and attractive.

“Good game, H.” Dele smiles and he means it: he always does. Harry’s never not good.  
“Eh, could’ve been better, should’ve finished more but cheers, Delboy. Wish we’d play more 7 a side, it’s fun. Your goal was a belter.” Dele’s heart does a little flip that leaves his insides rather misplaced. It’s not even anything but try telling Dele’s brain that.  
“Wanna hang out?” He gets out before he can regret it, and that’s not a big deal, because they hang out all the time and they’re definitely best friends now and one time, when Harry had had a grand total of 4 beers and half a shot, he’d told Dele that he loved him. It’s nobody’s business but Dele’s that he thinks about that 3 seconds a little more than is probably healthy.  
“Sure!” And Dele has to reprimand himself for being a complete cheese puff when he thinks Harry’s smile lights up the whole room. _Stop watching romcoms Del, you’re not Kiera Knightley_

If he is, he’ll get the man, Dele’s brain argues, which he thinks is a valid, if unlikely, point.

20 minutes later Harry’s driving them through North London, his hair wet and slicked back (that little strand is still in his face and Dele really really wants to reach across and twirl it round his finger but he’s not a 12 year old girl), smelling now of mint shower gel and a fresh spray of that cologne.

“Decent ice-skater, Del?” Harry asks not taking his eyes off the road because of course he drives like he wrote the driving laws personally. Dele knows he even turns his phone off so he won’t get distracted.  
“ _Am_ I?” Dele declares incredulously. Is he? Well, no, but he’s unwilling to be anything but perfect in front of the Golden Boy; he’s fiercely competitive and some small part of him kids itself that Harry might not be a decent skater.

It doesn’t take long for Dele’s theory to be disgraced. Harry’s a bloody figure skater, he’s convinced, and he spares a thought for Harry in a tight lycra costume with some tacky rhinestones before he’s brought back to the task at hand, quite literally. Harry has to save him from face planting into a cluster of teenage girls. Eric would make a joke about Dele diving but Harry just chuckles gently and grabs hold of Dele’s hand.

Harry’s hand is warm and surprisingly soft, and his thumb rubs lightly against the top of Dele’s and Dele really really likes that. He almost forgets he’s strapped into bloody knife-fitted snow boots on a surface designed to cripple, because Harry is gently squeezing his hand every now and again, like he’s reminding Dele he’s there (perhaps because Dele is fixated on watching his own feet and feeling along the barrier in complete fear of going flying).

Dele feels so in love it’s almost painful.

* * *

“But you _looovveeee_ me.” Dele teases in a sing-song voice.  
“That’s besides the point Dele, these things are packed with shit. Probably rotting your insides which is not what we need with 30 odd games.”  
“They taste good and I’m tired.”  
“Dele, how can something in a can from a petrol station taste good?”  
“They have San Pellegrino over there, Kane, which completely undermines your point.”  
_All I Want For Christmas Is You_ plays faintly over the speakers, suitably tinny for this kind of dodgy petrol station at 8pm on a December Tuesday. They’re only here because Dele’s a bit spoilt and delights in keeping all his friends wrapped round his little finger.  
“Last time I came here I was buying petrol station flowers for my Mum.”  
Dele tuts loudly as he pays for his drink. “I’m shocked and appalled, H. Took you as a '£100 a bunch, ordered 12 months in advance, kind of bloke', not 'trampled dying chrysanthemums 2 hours before'.”  
Harry has the good grace to look a little sheepish. “I was 21. Mother’s Day is hard to remember when you’re not in the same house getting ribbed by said mother, demanding a new pair of socks.”  
Dele thinks it’s highly unlikely that anyone has ever had to beg Harry to buy them presents because, already, Harry has bought Dele 12 video games, a fancy controller for his portable PS4 and this monthly subscription of exotic chocolates that never ceases to excite him. They only agreed to start giving each other presents 10 months ago.

It takes them 25 minutes to drive the 10 minute journey back to Harry’s house because the man is the dictionary definition of cautious, only speeding up the tiniest bit after Dele teases him and calls him grandad. Now, though, they’re finally at Harry’s swish new house playing Fortnite. Dele’s yelling, fidgeting, pointing, swearing and Harry’s just laughing and laughing.  
“Shouldn’t have let you get that energy drink, Del.”  
“Shut. Up. Harry. Kane.” And to add insult to that extreme injury, he sticks his tongue out. Harry breaks into renewed peals of laughter and only stops when Dele chucks the remainder of his 67p energy drink (millionaire or not, energy drinks that don’t taste like the chemical factories they came from aren’t worth it in Dele’s eyes, which he explained exasperatedly to Harry as he dragged him to the car) at him.  
Dele almost feels bad as he watches the blue tinged liquid spread across Harry’s t-shirt but Harry’s still chuckling softly.  
“You’re something special, Delboy.”

Harry peels his t-shirt off. Dele is a world-class footballer who has the pleasure of being teammates with Harry in every team he plays for. He has seen him shirtless near daily since they met and yet, his mouth still goes a little dry and his heart beat quickens perceptibly at the sight. A traitorous voice at the back of his head, which is connected to his inner teenage boy, tells Dele to lick the sticky sweetness off his abs. _Dele Alli, this isn’t a cheap porno_ , he scolds himself impatiently.

“Are you hot?” Harry asks suddenly, “Your face is a bit pink, I’ll turn the heating down, hang on.”  
Dele wants to bang his head against the wall until the rest of his brain cells filter out because God, if he isn’t an embarrassment to himself, his family and mankind itself. Harry really just asked why he was blushing when the reason Dele was blushing was Harry Kane’s bloody energy drink covered abs. He is going to become celibate.

After Harry’s cleaned himself up, and Dele’s controlled his facial blood vessels, he cooks Dele pasta because Dele insists anything that isn’t beans on toast impresses his limited culinary skills, and they watch Shaun of the Dead despite Harry’s protests that Halloween has been and gone.  
“Shaun of the Dead transcends seasons, Harry. It’s a classic any day of the year.”  
Dele feels a little smug because he can see Harry silently agree.

These are the kind of moments Dele wants to exist in forever. Harry’s settee is so comfy, and he looks so relaxed, and so happy to be in Dele’s company. It makes Dele’s skin tingle with happiness. That they can just sit and watch telly, laugh at the same shitty jokes and _be_ , means the world to him. For a few hours, they’re ordinary men in their mid 20s, who watched England reach the semi-finals rather than got them there, who work Monday-Friday instead of training everyday. Not that Dele isn’t eternally grateful for everything he has and forever proud of what he’s achieved but it’s nice to live in these moments of normal. And know that this is his and Harry’s normal.

When Dele leaves a few hours later, Harry pulls him into a hug that seems to be all-encompassing. His right hand keeps Dele’s head against his shoulder and his left hand rubs against the small of Dele’s back. As they move apart, Dele’s brain says _I love you_.

Harry smiles like he knows exactly what Dele’s thinking and nods his head like he completely agrees.

* * *

“You’re even more irritatingly bouncy than normal today, who finally got some?”  
“Shut it, Diet, it’s Christmas. Right Grinch, you are.”  
All Dele got was a night in with Harry but, right now, that seems to him to be just as good. It’s definitely why he’s in an outstandingly good mood. He bounces between people, from Winksy to Sonny to Eric and back again, eyeing Harry shyly throughout like a schoolgirl. Harry probably isn’t even paying attention, for goodness sake.  
“H is staring at you.” Winks tells him, eyebrows raised like this is noteworthy. It is to Dele, but shouldn’t and can’t be for anyone else. He chooses to ignore that Winks thought it was necessary to inform him and instead focuses on Harry across the training pitch.

Harry is looking, sleeves pulled over his hands just like Dele’s are, which is very sweet. He makes a mental note to tell Harry to cut thumb holes in his kit, even though the kitmen have aneurysms when they catch wind of it, because it’s very comfy. Quite beside the point, Dele pulls his focus back to the matter at hand: Harry. Watching, sleeves over hands, that little strand of hair near constantly in his face now because he needs a trim (Dele should tell him to get a haircut but he’d miss that curl too much) and cheeks a little red with the chill.

“Who isn’t looking at me, Winksy, I am a model.”  
“Apologies, King Dele, I forgot about your contract with Vogue. Still good for later?”  
“Of course. Get that cheap shit, y’know, that tastes like juice.”

A few hours after training, Dele and Winks are sat cross legged on his sofa, drinking that cheap shit that tastes like juice (fizzy rosé wine that Dele and Harry secretly share a love for) from fancy wine glasses in an attempt at sophistication. It is, of course, a natural progression from their England youth team days, and it’s definitely against all footballing rules but they only have enough to make things fuzzy round the edges and endlessly funny. You can’t afford hangovers when you’re playing a game every 3 days but they’re willing to risk it anyway.

“Let’s play a game.” Winks declares suddenly, freckled cheeks a little pink and expression going a bit dopey. He looks adorable when he gets to this stage, like a little rabbit or puppy and Dele tells him so in a giggle.  
“Let’s play...shag, marry, sell to Arsenal.”  
Winksy’s answering laugh rings round Dele’s head for what seems like hours and he can’t help his own giggling.  
“That isn’t a game, Del.” Harry tells him matter-of-factly.  
“It is now and I’m going first. Shag, marry, sell to Arsenal...me. Chills. Oo, and Madders.”  
Winks fixes him with a glare to which Dele holds his hands up in surrender.  
“Should be careful with the vodka, Winks, Russia never forgets and neither do I.”  
“We’re just friends!” Harry whines and Dele snorts inelegantly. “But. I’m selling you to Arsenal, because you are a traitor. I’m shagging James and I’ll marry Ben.”  
“Ahh, the truth will out. Winksy fancies Chilly.” Dele starts a football chant to accompany himself and only stops when Winksy’s pout turns decidedly pathetic.  
“Fine! Dele. Harry Kane, Harry Kane and Harry Kane, because I know you wanna marry him!”  
Dele would laugh at how ridiculously childlike Harry sounds but he’s too nervous to even stutter out a snicker.  
“What gives you that idea?” He tries with his best attempt at pompousness. It falls flat and sounds as defensive as he feels.  
“Everything, Del. But it’s okay. I think he probably loves you too.”  
It’s the second time he’s been told Harry loves him back in the last week, which he finds hard to believe. Harry is the perfect sporty popular lad from school who got all A’s and had the perfect popular girlfriend. Who was probably blonde, petite and the complete opposite of Dele.  
“Dunno about that, Winks.” Dele admits in an uncharacteristic show of insecurity.  
“I reckon so, Del.”

The game is prematurely abandoned so they sit upside down on the settee, feet over the top and hair brushing the ground, watching the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special on Gold. Dele thinks and thinks and thinks and has to remind himself to stop doing that because every disjointed thought bangs against his eyelids from the wine and blood rush to his head.

Winks holds his hand after a while and Dele almost cries thinking about how lucky he is to have the people he does.

* * *

Dele is waiting outside his front door, hopping from foot to foot to maintain steady blood flow because it is truly freezing and also pitch black and obviously Harry is late because he drives snail pace and is probably getting out of the car to sprinkle the road with grit personally every few yards. He doesn’t own a proper winter coat, because they’re not fashionable, and the only scarf he has is some baby pink checked M&S number Sally left behind last time she came to visit. Wrapped around his neck and half his face, over his black fluffy lined denim jacket, it looks ridiculous and he’s sure Harry will take the mickey a little but in his defence, it’s minus degrees.

“In my defence, it’s fucking baltic.” Dele mumbles when Harry finally pulls up in his driveway.  
“It’s pretty.” Harry grins, with a little gleam in his eyes that makes Dele want to kiss him till his lips go numb. “Pink suits you, Delboy.”  
Dele knows he has the kind of smug smile that makes people want to punch him, but nothing makes him glow like a compliment from Harry, sarcastic or otherwise.

Now, Dele prides himself on being the best-dressed footballer at Tottenham Hotspur F.C. (probably the England National Team too, he thinks idly), he feels strangely lacklustre next to Harry dressed in a fancy cashmere jumper and long grey coat. Since when did Harry Kane dress suave?

“Where are we off to?”  
“Christmas market. If you’re good, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”  
Dele laughs and ignores the way his rib cage tightens.  
“I’ll be good.” Voice sugar sweet, eyes wide and lips pouting, it has never ever failed on anyone yet and Dele knows he’s laying it on thick but he’s sure he doesn’t imagine the hitch in Harry’s answering chuckle.

“You know, I know someone who knew George Michael.” He says absentmindedly as _Last Christmas_ warbles through the speakers.  
“My cousin says that too. I think everyone south of Milton Keynes does.”  
Dele isn’t so sure about that, so he launches into a debate about why people would choose to declare a connection with George Michael of all people, when he’s swiftly silenced by his own realisation that Winksy, in fact, regularly pulls out “my uncle went to school with George Michael!” when he’s drunk and dancing to _I’m Your Man_. The look of triumph on Harry’s face at being proved right is so distinctly unHarry that Dele can’t even be annoyed he’s wrong.

The remainder of the car journey is occupied with Dele’s truly atrocious solo karaoke, Harry joining in reluctantly for the chorus of _Merry Xmas Everybody_ after Dele delivers a rather hard punch to his thigh.  
“What happened to being good?” Harry reminds him slyly, in between stumbling over the lyrics. Dele shrugs and astutely ignores the fact his ears have gone pink.

The market is an explosion of people, despite Harry driving them a good hour out of the city, that irks Dele so deeply he has to dig his nails into his palms.  
“Honestly, when did evolution make humans so slow?!” The glow in his chest when Harry laughs heartily at his (shitty, in his opinion) joke almost overshadows the extreme irritation of falling over parka coat hems and heavy boots on slug-pace feet. Almost.  
“Patience is a virtue, Dele.” Harry whispers into Dele’s ear like it’s a secret and for some reason, he feels it is. It’s certainly ironic that Harry’s telling Dele that when he’s been patient so long he’s not even waiting anymore. He hasn’t been for the last year and it’s been easier that way.

That doesn’t stop the shiver that sits at the base of his spine and tingles through him every time Harry touches him a little longer than usual building to a complete shudder when Harry pulls him onto the seat of a fairly unsafe looking fair ride, laughing “I know how much you hate horror films, are you better scared of rides too? Am I gonna have to listen to you scream?”

(It’s completely besides the point that Dele isn’t scared of rides - quite likes them actually - or that what Harry’s said is just a joke, probably mimicking the stupid Cockney drawl of the man who always operates the ride and lazily demands the riders scream if they want to go faster. It doesn’t even matter that if it wasn’t a joke, it would be disgustingly sleazy and cheap, because Dele is well and truly fucked and the barest hint of suggestion in it has made his skin prickle.)

The ride is so appalling shit and surely a health and safety risk that Dele spends the whole 2 minutes alternating between trying not to choke on his constant laughter and dealing with whiplash when it jerks back too quick. Harry’s chuckling too, mostly at Dele’s pure happiness, eyes bright and soft and when Dele realises, his cheeks shade a tone darker.

Dele gets whipped cream on his nose and Harry rubs it off with his thumb, licking it off happily and Dele is disgusted with himself for taking every one of Harry’s innocent gestures to heart (or cock, more like) but can you blame him? Their hands brush together as they walk, pushing through crowds who thankfully leave them alone, and for a glorious 5 seconds, Harry grips Dele’s hand to pull him through the swarms of people. Even through Harry’s gloves, Dele can feel the heat of his hand. Harry squeezes it and lets go, beaming at Dele and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It takes every shred of his self-control not to fold himself into Harry’s chest.

This is a disaster.

* * *

 

Winks picks up on the third ring. “Oi, oi.” He sounds breathless, like the cold is using up all his oxygen. Dele sniggers.  
“Winksy. Winks.”  
“Delboy. Dele.”  
“I think I properly like Harry.”  
Winks’ first reaction is laughter. Dele feels rather put out.  
“Took you long enough.”  
“I know, I know, but it’s serious now. Like, I can’t stop thinking about him, kinda serious. Like I sorta got hard when he took off his shirt in training today.”  
“Mmm. That is serious.”  
Dele rolls his eyes and thuds his head against the headboard of his bed. The entire frame vibrates and it seems a perfect embodiment for the frustration radiating through him right now. Suddenly, things don’t seem so manageable. The getting-hard was a new, dizzying, height and Dele really isn’t pleased about it.  
“My best advice is: wank and try and ignore it. Or tell ‘im.”  
“Oh, cheers, Winksy. I’ll just give Oprah a ring, let her know you’re coming for her job.”  
“Fuckin’ hell, not my fault you’re in love with H and you’re too wussy to do anything about it.”  
“I don’t appreciate that tone, Harry Winks. Farewell.” He takes great pleasure in jabbing the hang up button and let’s out a martyred sigh.

30 minutes later, Dele’s wiping come off his stomach and desperately clearing his history at the same time, when Harry texts him.

 **harry** : when’s our xmas date then delboy? my present’s perfect :)

Can the Lord not take pity on Dele for one day?

* * *

“Mate. What would you say, if I told you. I liked a bloke?” Dele says it as nonchalantly as he can, between sips of too-hot tea. Harry looks faintly surprised (brother Harry - there’s too many in his life) but slowly, he smiles slightly.  
“I’d say, that’s nice, I’m glad you’ve found someone. Who is he? Hypothetically?” Harry’s face is warm and open and it makes Dele feel light. He knows nobody will mind that sometimes, he likes boys, because everyone around him loves him and he is so lucky to know it and feel the honesty in their care. He smiles a little sheepishly, small and content.  
“Someone on the team.”  
“Eric?”  
Dele’s snort sends him into a coughing fit and paints the table with spat-out tea.  
“I’ll take that as a no.” Harry chortles, thumping Dele on the back till his gasps level into breaths and he can breathe in without streams of tears.  
“Not a chance.” Dele sniggers and thinks about how indignant Eric will be when Dele tells him.  
“Understood. Well, whoever he is, he’ll be lucky to have you Del.”

Dele wraps his arms around Harry for that, tucking his head into his neck and breathing deeply to try and undo the lump in his throat.  
“Cheers, mate. I appreciate it.” He mumbles, choked up and endlessly grateful. He isn’t even sure why he brought it up, because it’s not like Harry will ever actually have him, but he hopes that one day he’ll meet a man he can feel a shred of the happiness with he feels with Harry. He trusts that he deserves that and he knows it’s just a matter of time. He won’t want Harry anymore and they can be best friends and Dele’s tummy won’t tingle when Harry smiles and his cheeks won’t heat when Harry walks around the changing room shirtless.

He ignores that the idea of not loving Harry anymore makes his heart clench in his chest.

* * *

Harry takes him to a fancy restaurant that does those little portions that see Dele in the McDonalds queue an hour later. He’s faintly worried they’ll be a the Sun headline in the morning, or maybe a gossip column in Heat or a topic on Lorraine, but he pushes that to the back of his mind to admire Harry instead. He’s wearing a pale grey dress shirt that pulls at his biceps when he crosses his arms, and tight black jeans that hug his arse a bit too well for Dele’s sanity. If Dele was forced at gunpoint to give his opinion, he’d say Harry looks incredible, and really, the gun wouldn’t be necessary.

“I wrote a card. It’s a bit cheesy.” He looks nervous, a little embarrassed and Dele wants to kiss the worry off his face. Nobody appreciates cheesiness like Dele, and honestly, how bad can it be? For someone so confident and talented, Harry is bumbling and cautious in equal measure and it’s endlessly endearing. Dele loves that Harry is shy and quiet and earnest and yet, decides to spend so much time with him. It’s a paradox that baffles him.

Harry’s handwriting is loopy but neat. Dele admires how his name looks in Harry’s scrawl and knows he really needs to give it a rest. You’re obsessing over the man’s handwriting Dele, you’ve officially gone mad. He tunes back in when he feels Harry’s leg twitch nervously against his and he hopes his answering smile is reassuring and not as manic as it feels stretching his cheeks.

“Thanks for being my friend, H.” He mumbles, because sometimes Dele feels these bursts of love and gratitude and he has to let Harry know. It’s important to him that Harry knows. Dele can be content never telling Harry he loves him, as long as he knows Harry’s aware of how much he appreciates him.

As a friend.

Dele has never seen a man look as truly touched as Harry does. Pink dusts his cheekbones as his lips upturn happily. He stares at his hands and fiddles with the napkin and the whole situation would be painfully awkward if Dele didn’t know this was just Harry, and Harry was trying his best to process. He never does deal well with compliments, and it’s quite difficult for him to turn it round and make it about Dele. He’s checkmated him there.

“It’s my pleasure, Del. Honestly.” He says finally. Maybe one day Dele will tell Harry that the two things he most appreciates are honesty and promises. There’s a safety in hearing someone say “I promise” that Dele will never tire of. It says trust, and love, and truth and Dele is stuck in primary school in many ways, but pinkie promises are a forerunning remnant. Dele wonders if he’s naïve, or just too sentimental.

Someone coughs from another table and the moment shatters. Dele digs into his tiny, beautifully presented dessert and there’s something unspoken that translates in lack of eye contact and two blushing faces. They may be millionaire footballers at a fancy restaurant but this screams awkward Year 9 Nandos date to Dele. ( _It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date_ Dele has to remind himself over and over, because he’s been doing so well and it’d be a shame to let himself down now).

If they were _together_ , the evening would be ridiculously romantic. Dele almost expects a dusting of icing sugar snow when they leave the restaurant, but life isn’t quite the perfect romcom so they have to hug goodbye under torrential rain. Dele apologies for his shitty present (cologne and another very expensive Cashmere jumper because Dele loves seeing them on him. For anyone else, he’d be over the moon with his choice, but Harry has probably bought him everything on any Christmas list he ever had). Harry chuckles and says he’ll love everything anyway.

It’s 5 days till Christmas and Dele is still hopelessly in love with Harry.

* * *

_Dele,_

_I’d buy you the world if I could, I hope you know that. I love you, and I hope you know that too._

_You’re amazingly oblivious for such an intuitive player!_

_You make me happy, and you make me proud, and you make me want to be better._

_You’re one in a bloody million Delboy and I hope I haven’t misread things because I can’t bear to lose you but you had to know._

_Harry x_  
_(p.s. told you it was cheesy!)_

* * *

Dele knows. It’s glorious.

* * *

Harry looks almost scared when Dele knocks on his door. His eyes are closed off, not as bright or open as Dele is used to and he hates it. There’s so much he wants to say, everything fighting to go first and it’s still raining so Dele is freezing cold and sopping wet on Harry’s doorstep because he hasn’t invited him in and nobody has said anything and Dele still can’t find the words.

Harry kisses him.

It’s chaste, a soft brush against his lips and Dele groans (it’s definitely a whine but he’s unwilling to admit that) because he doesn’t know what Harry tastes like, the rain masking it all. He wants his romcom moment, kissing in the rain, but he wants to be warm and he wants to know what Harry tastes like more. They stumble into the hallway, door slamming shut so loudly the frame rattles. There’s another moment, silence and deep breaths and Dele is definitely dripping all over Harry’s carpet and probably leaving muddy footprints and he still can’t express anything that he wants to, needs to say. He tries to run with instinct, because instinct got him where he is now, in Harry’s doorway, a World Cup semi-finalist, world class footballer and ridiculously in love with England and Tottenham Hotspur striker Harry Kane.

“I love you too.”  
Harry nods in a strange, half-aborted bop that sends Dele into those helpless giggles and suddenly they’re leaning against each other, unable to stop laughing.  
“I hoped.”  
Dele grins. He understands hoping.

They kiss again, and Dele can taste the chocolate of Harry’s pudding on his lips, and mint, and it’s intoxicating and takes over all his senses and it’s so unbelievably good that he has to hold onto Harry’s hoodie to keep himself sane. Harry nips at his lip, gently somehow, and Dele whines. His tongue traces Dele’s teeth and Dele is definitely whimpering which would be embarrassing if he hadn’t have been imagining this moment for months.

It’s so attractive to Dele that Harry carries himself with the same confidence he does on the pitch in this; he keeps Dele stable, strokes his cheek and neck with long fingers and presses them closer together with a hand on the small of his back. He moans quietly when he feels Dele against his hip and Dele makes a belated attempt at being embarrassed about it, but Harry slips his thigh between Dele’s before he can even try and feel sheepish.

Dele’s pathetically grinding against Harry’s thigh, whining pitifully and almost sobbing into his shoulder because he hasn’t been touched in so long, and it’s all so overwhelmingly _good_. The way Harry mouths at his neck, bites and sucks, groans quietly like he can’t help himself even though Dele’s the one being touched and is devastatingly close already.  
“Dele.” Harry mutters, still lazily kissing every part of him he can.  
Dele sighs in response, trying to steady his movements and ignore that he’s now so hard it hurts and he desperately wants to come and have Harry let him do it.  
“Hang on a minute. Don’t wanna do it first like this.” And even though all his blood flow is collected in a certain area, the words still hit him enough to bring a smile, at Harry’s sweetness.

Despite Harry’s attempts otherwise, Dele comes fairly soon after. Harry only manages to slip the second finger in for half a minute before Dele moans helplessly into the pillow and comes untouched and tingling, all over his thighs and stomach. He’d be embarrassed if the husk in Harry’s voice when he asks Dele if he’s okay didn’t tell him Harry finds him, everything he’s doing, incredibly hot. It’s a confidence boost and a half.

It’s a relief and, Dele has to admit, a surprise, to find that Harry is as self-assured fucking him into the mattress as he is on the penalty spot. Dele feels impossibly full, deliriously happy and completely boneless as Harry grips his hips with possessive hands he hopes and prays bruise. He can already imagine the purple dappled along his hip bone that’ll ache just right and remind him for days.

“You’re so beautiful, Del.” Harry groans, nailing his prostrate dead-on over and over. Dele knows his whimpering is constant and increasing in pitch but it’s impossible to stop. Harry pulls him up, so they’re flush together and runs a hand along his cock, already hard and leaking, whispering brokenly about how pretty he is and it’s all Dele can do not to fall apart when Harry tells him to come.

They lie curled around each other afterwards, warm and content. All Dele can hear is their synchronised breathing. All he can feel is Harry’s legs tangled round his own. It’s the simplicity that does it to him and he can’t help but wrap a hand around Harry’s and hold it loosely, infinitely happy and impossibly lucky.

He wakes up an hour later to find they’re still holding hands.

* * *

For the time of year, the room’s bright and airy. The curtains are open and it’s one of those crisp, pretty Winter days, where the sun is sharp and clear. Dele’s twisted in bed sheets and naked and everything aches faintly. Harry is watching him, hair falling in his eyes and eyes soft and half-open with sleepiness. He’s stroking his fingers up and down Dele’s arm, gently and it tickles.

“I used to play this game with my best mate when I was a kid. We’d just draw things on each other’s skin and have to guess what it is.” Primary school Dele has made another appearance - it’s only a matter of time before he starts making Harry daisy chains. But Harry grins and nods and pats him till he rolls over.  
“If you draw a dick, Harry Kane, this will all be over before you know it.”  
Harry chuckles and starts running the tip of his finger across Dele’s back, down his spine. Dele tries not to squirm (he’s very ticklish) and pays close attention. Harry kisses the base of his neck when he’s finished and Dele immediately rolls over, shoving Harry with clammy hands.  
“You’re a fucking wotsit!” He yells, fake-angry and Harry blushes and shrugs.

Dele can’t believe he ever thought of himself as sappy when Harry Kane just wrote I love you on his back at 8 am in bed.

“I’ll make you breakfast. Tea?”  
Dele nods and Harry jumps out of bed, blissfully naked until he pulls on a pair of grey joggers, leaning back in to kiss Dele’s cheek sweetly before bounding out the door with energy reserved for puppies and startled deer. Dele shakes his head fondly, completely endeared by how obviously Harry loves this.

 **dele** : guess what diet  
**eric** : enlighten me delboy  
**dele:** i’m in love

The three dots stop and start for over a minute before he finally receives:

 **eric:** you deserve it del  
**eric:** if he’s ever a dick to you, i’ll castrate him  
**eric:** can’t believe you finally got a shag!

Dele rolls his eyes and grins. Life has delivered him something sickeningly sweet, something definitely worthy of a film adaption, probably staring a young Hugh Grant and Dele may be a 22 year old man in one of the most masculine industries known of, but this is all he’s ever wanted and he’s unashamed to admit it.

There’s a man downstairs making him breakfast and singing _Merry Christmas Everyone_ (and he  _never_ sings) at the top of his voice, accompanied by kitchen utensil percussion. He still hasn’t cut his hair and he’s made a strange habit of always cutting thumb holes into his kits and he writes Dele cheesy Christmas cards that Dele thinks he’s probably gonna have to frame somewhere. Maybe he could have it permanently on the lounge mantelpiece, he considers absentmindedly, next to the shot of all the England lads and a photo of him and Harry he’ll have to get printed immediately as a Christmas present to himself.

“It’s ready, Del!” Harry bellows up the stairs; Dele can hear Slade in the background now, and last night’s Match Of The Day, as he pulls on one of Harry’s jumpers that smells of his cologne, and he knows this is their normal. Honestly, and promising, and all the things Dele values and knows Harry understands.

Dele’s hopelessly in love but that's definitely okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i love harry winks too much, so in this christmasified, very cheesy world he is one of dele's best friends. similarily, eric is a sarcastic snarky bitch because i had too much fun writing him that way  
> re the george michael thing i assume its not a universal experience but just saying, winksy and me have what he says in common and like twelve people i know say something about him and its too funny to me not to include  
> anyway, feedback welcomed of course. hope you enjoyed n happy christmas!


End file.
